


you did not make me suffer

by shaude



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Gen, HP: EWE, M/M, Not Epilogue Compliant, Not Harry Potter and the Cursed Child Compliant, POV Severus Snape, Post-Deathly Hallows, Severus Snape Has a Heart, Severus Snape Lives, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Snape smokes, Unresolved Romantic Tension, penance!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-28
Updated: 2018-03-24
Packaged: 2018-08-27 11:36:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8400175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shaude/pseuds/shaude
Summary: Severus never expected to live through the War. He never expected Potter to survive either. All he asks is that he be left in peace — to his garden, the brewing of his Potions, the alphabetisation of his book collection and, for once, to the staying out of trouble. Why does it seem Life always has other plans?





	1. After the war

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well here goes nothin'. All mistakes mine.

_you did not make me suffer,_  
_you only made me wait._  
—[Blood, but also roses](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3840400) by mia_ugly  


***

After the war, there is first the ignominy of only the second time in his life he must appear before the Wizengamot, crawling on his belly, begging for pardon. Severus had thought he would hate it, as he had that first time. But he finds that in some fundamental way he is not that same young, spitting scarecrow who needed Albus’ protection all those years ago – that in fact he is mostly just very tired and wants to disappear. The scars on his neck are still tight and shiny and white, and he wears his collar very high and stiff. He longs to be anywhere but in the bowels of this godforsaken warren of old rooms, surrounded by those who always looked down their noses at him anyway and who feel no differently now that he is groveling before them yet again.

The only time he can conjure anything that feels like the old vitriol is on the very few occasions Potter turns up to plead his case. These times Severus cannot stand, can barely look at him, sitting up in the witness seat, seeming much more grown up than Severus had remembered but with his bastard father’s same ridiculous hair and those calm, green eyes which refuse to stop looking at him, probing for something, Severus does not know what. He is pathetically grateful that with the way things stand he never leaves his place when Potter is there, that Potter enters and exits for his grandstanding moments whilst Severus remains seated in the docket, trying not to hunch in on himself too much as Potter shares his version of events. Dumbledore would be pleased, which just makes Severus angrier. Even in this, Albus has fooled everyone. The boy has to come here, after all that the old wizard put him through, and say that what Severus did was for the higher good – when Severus by all rights should be dead and so should Potter.

When they do finally let him go, it is mercifully without much fanfare. Once the judgement has come down – “Severus Snape found innocent of all charges; petition for proceedings further to a possible Ministerial commendation denied” (as much as Potter had insisted, no Order of Merlin would be forthcoming, thank Heavens) – the Auror on duty leads him out, removes his Impervius shackles, and Severus is free to go. They direct him to the pigeonhole where his effects were stowed after his recovery stint in St Mungo’s, and with his blood-encrusted robes, so stained that the cloth is literally flaking away, he is surprised to find a familiar silver phial, one of Albus’. For a brief moment, in a way that Severus has begun to find unnervingly increasingly common in the weeks since he woke up in the Hogwarts infirmary under Poppy’s tearful gaze, Minerva just over her shoulder, he suffers a break with reality and thinks that the old wizard has sent him a gift from beyond the grave. Then he recovers himself enough to unroll the parchment tied with a bit of limp string to the neck of the Pensieve flask—

> **_Snape_** , it reads, in a scrawl Severus would recognise anywhere, even if he were half-blind with old age (from dozens of poorly written Potions essays), **_these are your memories. You should have them back. We won because of you._**  
> 

And then the signature below, the H bigger than the rest of the first name combined, and the surname barely legible. Severus ignores the feeling that the missive was meant to say more had only the writer been more sure of his reception. That's as it should be.

He sweeps from the corridors of the Ministry, as much as it is possible to anyway, in borrowed robes that are too long for him and still feeling the aftereffects of Nagini’s venom. Two unlucky reporters try to accost him on his way through the Atrium, but the look on Severus’ face is enough to quell them. Thank Merlin, as Severus uncharacteristically doesn’t feel up to much else.

He Apparates directly to Spinner’s End, and for his pride and trouble has to sit on the doorstep with his head in his palm for a good few minutes before the bout of post-snakebite nausea passes. It is warm in Cokeworth, warmer than Severus had anticipated, already late June, almost two months since he lay sprawled on the floor of the Shrieking Shack, bleeding out and poisoned. By Severus’ count, he lay there almost half a day before some of the mop-up crew, older students and Order members, found him. He should not be alive. With an effort, he gets up off the doorstep and unlocks the physical and magical locks on his front door. He makes tea and falls asleep before the sun has set.

***

In the summer weeks that follow, Severus is surprised to find that what he is most _surprised_ about is that now, finally, there is time. Time for so many things that Severus had never, ever planned on getting round to. Things he thought the War would put paid to and that he would therefore have no time to miss, being dead. Time for the silly and the banal: time to consolidate his books here at Spinner’s End with those from his rooms at Hogwarts (as he will not be going back; Minerva wrote him a letter, somehow both proud and contrite in a way only she would do, to the effect that his old teaching position was of course saved for him should he so choose to return, to which he had the satisfaction of sharpening his quill to write back, _Slughorn can keep it, and on his head be it._ ); time to clear out the detritus of years of neglect; time to weed the garden and plant the first of a crop of Potions ingredients, herbs and what Muggles would consider certain wild weeds and magical plants. Time for the long and reflective: to read magical theory and smoke too many rolled cigarettes and remember things he’d rather forget.

One hot day toward the end of July, when he has been immersed in these things for approaching a month, the crack of Apparition disturbs him cleaning out two of his bigger pewter cauldrons, after an all-night brew session that has left circles under his eyes, blackest coffee on his breathe, and an ache in his neck — in other words, as close to delightful as Severus has approached in _literal years_. He opens the front door to Potter on the doorstep, looking tanned and more mangy than ever.

“Profess- Snape. I wanted to see you.” Potter’s nerves can’t hide behind the reflection in his glasses, but the quirk of his mouth is genuine.

Severus does not know what to say. The feeling is not mutual. This must show on his face. He does not try to hide it.

“I- Can I come in?”

Severus does not move from the doorway. For a moment, Potter shuffles from one foot to the other. Then he seems to make a decision and barges past into the hall. Severus feels his hackles rise. “Potter-”

“Look-” Potter interrupts, putting up his hands in a flurry of movement, palms out toward Severus, turning first half away from him toward the entrance to the kitchen before turning his head half back to look at Severus out of the corner of his eye — afraid, it would seem, to look at him directly. “Look, I needed to see you.”

“Potter,” Severus growls warningly. “You don’t need to see me. You don’t _need_ anything.”

At that Potter’s green eyes flash up into Severus’ face, and Severus feels the last of his tether start to fray. “Potter, will you kindly get out of my house,” he hisses, still holding the front door open. 

Potter looks anxiously at the open door. “Prof-”

“Not Professor, not sir, not anything to you anymore.” Potter looks almost disappointed. _For god’s sake._ “Potter, _get_ out.”

“There’s so much I want to ask you— about what you did for our side, about what really happened, about-”

Snape holds up his hand, lips pressed into a thin line. “Potter, I owe you nothing. My debts are paid.” With the hand not holding the door open, Severus reaches for Potter’s upper arm, intending to fetch him out onto the doorstep. Potter dodges and falls back into the kitchen. Severus stalks forward after him. 

“I know,” Potter says, looking around Severus’ spare kitchen, the scratched wooden work surfaces and leaky tap, the smoke-stained curling wall-paper. Severus bares his teeth. “I know, you don’t owe me anything. I owe you.” Potter swallows. Severus fights the bizarre impulse to shudder. "I'm sorry it took so long for anyone to find you."

"To find me-"

"To find you in the Shrieking Shack. I didn't think of it at first, and you could've been dead by the time they found you. So much was happening, and I can't believe I forgot to send anyone back for you right away. I hadn't slept much," Potter cards a hand through his hair, making it only stand further on end, "and by the time I told anyone it was the next morning."

This is news to Severus. He had not known it was under Potter's orders that he'd been found - perhaps even found at all. It's almost enough to make him feel some sort of gratitude is in order. There is also the fact that he knows some of what transpired in the period when Potter says 'so much was happening,' including a showdown between the Dark Lord and Potter himself.

Hoping to say something that will suffice and get Potter to leave, he quirks one eyebrow. "I imagine you had a lot on your mind."

To his immense discomfiture, Potter looks down at this and a red blush travels up to his ears. Good _god_.

"Potter-"

“You could tell me about my— about my mum.” Potter bites his lip.

Severus’ brain freezes. His hands close at his sides, and he can feel his knuckles turning white. His fingers are cold from washing out the cauldrons, which he can see still sitting in the basin of the sink where he left them because of this— interruption. 

He looks at Potter, who is looking back at him, chin up, uncowed, standing in the middle of Severus’ mother’s old kitchen, his fingernails bitten to the quick, worrying his lip, but defiant, asking about his mother. Severus is suddenly, unexpectedly livid, his heart racing in his chest. “Potter,” he breathes, low and threatening, his eyes narrowed. He realises he has left his wand on the table in the cellar with his Potions equipment. Unforgivable. He can feel his pulse thundering in his ears. Potter is looking at him. Severus cannot read his expression -- Pain? Regret? Recognition?

“I’ll- I’ll go,” Potter says, unexpectedly, putting up his hands again. He looks at Severus. “I'm sorry I barged in. I’ll- I’ll see you around, sir,” and before Severus can register what is happening, Potter is nodding and has backed into the hall. And then he is gone, presumably out the front door.

Severus hears the snap of his Apparition. He is left standing alone in his kitchen, wand hand clutched in a vice, his jaw aching from the grimace on his face. Finally, he collapses into a chair, his left hand idly going up to massage the shiny tissue below his now racing pulse point. 

_Godammit._

***

That is of course not destined to be Potter’s last attempt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would love your thoughts. Working my way ahead of this as we speak. Love being back in the game after all these years. Something about now and this time for me meant Snarry... Lucky ducks.
> 
> I need a beta and a Britpicker — please shoot me an email at dylanify@yahoo.co.uk if you're interested! 
> 
> I'll repay you in gratitude and the shared narrative belief that Severus Snape did not die in the Shrieking Shack on 2 May, 1998.


	2. Aside from this

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well you'd think Harry'd come back. And he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (This chapter was getting longer and longer, and then I realised I just needed to put it out there in the world - whilst I work on the next bit! The ending, therefore, is perhaps a little abrupt.)

_Oh, where have you been, my blue-eyed son_  
_And where have you been, my darling young one_  
_I've stumbled on the side of twelve misty mountains_  
_I've walked and I've crawled on six crooked highways_  
_I've stepped in the middle of seven sad forests_  
_I've been out in front of a dozen dead oceans_  
_I've been ten thousand miles in the mouth of a graveyard_  
_And it's a hard, and it's a hard, it's a hard, and it's a hard_  
_It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall_

***

Aside from this, however, the summer rolls by for Severus, perhaps one of the most surreal summers he has ever known — and that includes the one over the course of which Lucius Malfoy introduced him to the Dark Lord and he received his Mark, an evening followed by a terrible alcohol-soaked bacchanalia that ended with almost all the Slytherin upper year boys passed out in a Muggle car they’d stolen — somewhere in a field in Wiltshire.

This summer is surreal for quite opposite reasons. 

In all the years that Severus can remember, he had been afraid. In that Muggle car, certainly, and in much of his school years prior to that — afraid for himself, afraid of what he stood to lose and then of what he had lost — and then, after the worst had happened, afraid of the burden of responsibility that weighed him down for most of his adult life. And suddenly— he is afraid no longer. 

Severus finds that, visits by certain individuals notwithstanding, the absence of threat changes things, perhaps even changes him. From a creature who had subsisted on adrenaline and information, it is not that he becomes- someone else. It is just that he allows himself to sleep more often, to brew for his own enjoyment as he has not done since his days with Lily, and to sit with a book for pleasure, as if there will be no end to the day, a thing he can't even remember doing before Hogwarts… Perhaps only listening to his mother’s bedtime stories when he had truly been a child had been like that. It is almost...contentment. 

The most surprising thing perhaps is that he finally allows himself to grieve for Albus Dumbledore. For so much of this first summer after is now coloured, as nothing in the previous year could be (there just wasn’t _time_ ), coloured by the things that Albus had said in that last year after Severus had made the Unbreakable Vow, before he had fulfilled the deal Albus forced upon him.

***

_“Please don’t take it overhard, my boy,” Albus had interjected once, during one of Severus’ many late night treatments of his curse-infected hand. Severus had looked up at the unexpected non-sequitur, a question in his eyes. “My death, I mean,” Albus clarified. Severus began quickly to return his phials to their leather Potions case, immediately resenting the conversational turn. The Headmaster watched as he shut the case with a click. “Severus,” he said. Severus fought to return his gaze, frowning. “When all of this is over, and you are enjoying the hard-won rest you deserve, please do not isolate yourself or self-castigate.”_

_“I do not intend to survive.”_

_“Severus, if not for my sake, then for hers.” Severus looked away. “I know that she is dead, but her son lives.” (This was before Severus had learned the truth of Potter’s presumed fate.) “There will be very few people who can understand what it is to live through these times.”_

***

In the dog days of summer, Potter returns. 

This time Severus is deep into his back garden, weeding. As any Herbologist could tell you, no magical shortcut could make up for good old-fashioned knees in the dirt. Having already chucked off a pair of brown muck boots he wasn't even sure whose they were, he is kneeling in his shirtsleeves in the vegetable patch, sweat dripping from his widow’s peak down into his face. 

Even if this was his most content summer ever, Severus maintains his wards. There are disaffected wizards in the world, especially after this last round of tit for tat, and Severus does not fool himself that he isn't high up on many people’s lists on both sides… So that when he feels the wards around his house literally _give_ , he has his wand in his hand within moments. He has had just time enough to achieve a standing crouch in his own garden when Potter ambles into view round the side of the house. He stops feet from Severus, taking in his posture, standing grim-faced and barefoot in the damp earth. For the boy’s own sake, Severus hopes that the look on Potter’s face is _not_ amusement.

“Potter,” he grinds out, fighting to relax his shoulders. “You could at least have knocked. And how _did_ you get around the wards?”

Potter has the decency to pretend to look shame-faced. He rubs the back of his neck. “I don’t know. Wards haven’t had much effect on me since - the Battle. Besides, I think I told them that I was going to be nice to you, and they let me in?” 

Severus stares.

“Sir, I didn’t want to bother you, but you hadn’t returned any of my Owls” — oh, _hadn't he_ — “and it’s just that I’m starting Year Eight soon, that is, doing over my seventh year, and I wanted to see you before I went back.”

“Whatever for?”

Potter just looks at him. As Severus is opening his mouth to tell him to bugger off, Potter blurts, “I could stay and help with—” and gestures in the general vicinity of Severus’ bare feet.

Severus wants to sigh. Instead, he carefully extricates himself from the vegetable patch and grabs a dirty tea-towel lying beside his chucked off boots, wiping the soil of his hands. He eyes Potter as well he can in the bright midday sun and smirks, eyelids fluttering closed to keep out the sun. “If your skills in Potions are anything to go by, any help you could provide would do more harm than good.”

Potter looks at him, pulling at the bedraggled tail of his oversized white t-shirt. “I’m actually a fair hand at gardening. At home— with the Dursleys, I had to do it a lot.”

Severus contemplates that non-sequitur. He is thirsty and sweaty. Potter is not going anywhere without a fight this time. 

“Mr Potter, I am going inside to grab myself a drink.” Severus flips the dishtowel onto his shoulder with an air of finality. "Even for August, it is intemperately hot. If you follow me, I will- refrain from complaining.”

***

In Severus’ dingy kitchen, it is mercifully more clement- and shaded. The sweat sticking to Severus’ skin, however, is already starting to go tacky and cold, and he cannot even find two clean glasses for the single malt. He is not yet gone savage enough in his prolonged bachelorhood to resort to drinking Scotch out of one of his Potions jars, but neither does he have more than the one tumbler he keeps for himself. As he yanks open and closed three threadbare cupboards, he watches Potter out of the corner of his eye as the other man perches on a rickety wooden chair at the kitchen table.

“I don’t need a glass,” Potter interjects when Severus has closed the last cupboard door.

“Don’t be absurd, Potter.” He picks up the bottle and his own lone glass and slams them on the table next to Potter, who does not jump. “I shall return,” Severus says and sweeps out of the kitchen. 

When Severus has succeeded in fetching a clean jar from the lab in his cellar, he returns, the extra glass clutched in one hand. Potter is nowhere to be found. For the briefest of moments, Severus cannot decide if the swoop in his stomach is relief or self-consciousness - that Potter had not even bothered to say goodbye. Then he hears a creak across the hall and narrows his eyes. He quickly dashes a couple of fingers into two glasses and prowls to the door of the sitting room. In the midst of his parents’ old front room, Potter is standing, entranced by something on Severus’ mantelpiece.

_Oh._

In these last couple months, Severus had not only cleared out and dusted and, of all things, rehung his mother’s old drapes. He has also had the courage — or extreme foolishness — to take out a few old mementos that he had certainly thought better forgotten whilst Wormtail had been...resident.

Severus realises he must be more on edge than he thought when, against all his intentions to return to the kitchen unnoticed, he inadvertently clinks one of the glasses against the other. At the sound Potter whirls quickly from the mantelpiece to face him, his face an ‘o’ of surprise. 

“Whisky.” Severus takes a tentative step into the room and proffers one of the glasses in Potter’s general direction. Almost skittishly, the other man crosses the room to meet him and takes the glass from his hand, the heat from his tanned wrist just brushing the inside of Severus’ forearm as he retreats, looking up with too many questions in his eyes from underneath his fringe.

“Please,” Severus strives for dryness, “sit.” He gestures to the dilapidated brown settee to one side of the room. 

Potter takes a quick gulp of the single malt and winces, shaking his head. He points at one of the photos on the mantel. “Would you-” he swallows. “Would you tell me about this?”

Severus’ throat is dry. His skin feels tight, and he does not want to tell Potter anything. As if against his will his eyes follow the direction of Potter’s extended index finger. He throws back his glass in one long gulp and sets it decisively on a side table as he approaches the mantel. He stares at the photo -- and for a moment the image captured there fills his whole being, and he forgets that Potter is even in the room.

In it, a schoolgirl is caught laughing in the centre of the frame. Fourteen, fifteen, at most sixteen years old, dressed in her school uniform, intelligent eyes in an amused, somehow sober face, looking back into the camera. She is the sole focus of the lens. Her glance, however, is clearly directed at the photographer themselves. She is exasperated and fond but- resigned. She is reaching out with one hand to pull the photographer into the frame. It is clearly useless. All she can do — in the way of wizarding photographs everywhere, caught in their endless loop — all she can do is reach over and over for the photographer’s pale, long-fingered hand, caught forever in the far bottom right of the shot. Their fingers never quite touch. She tries to grab the photographer out from behind the camera, whilst his hand flaps ineffectually (a bit imperiously, one might think) to chivvy her into position, into the best light in some old stone window seat, surrounded by panes of glass and white Scottish sun.

When Severus’ eyes fall directly on the photograph, Lily turns briefly to look back at him and smiles — smiles as if she is seeing him, the teenaged photographer, not the severe, middle-aged Potions Master (and ex-spy) with permanent frown lines carving deep grooves either side of his mouth, standing in her best friend’s family sitting room in Cokeworth.

Severus chances a glance at Potter, who has crept during this time to stand at his shoulder and is staring transfixed at the photo too. Severus looks back at it, and sees Lily now gazing up at her son, not with a look of recognition but, perhaps in answer to the wistful yearning on Potter’s face, with some of those same emotions echoing back at him.

Severus tears his gaze away and takes several abortive steps back into the room, where he finds himself almost clinging to the other end of the mantelpiece, as if he will break it off in his fingers. Please gods, he cannot—

He hears the creak of the sofa and glances out the corner of his eye. Potter has sat in it, clutching his glass of undrunk whisky, and is staring at the floorboards. 

Severus grits his teeth. This of course was all the very worst of mistakes, and if he had not dispensed almost immediately post War with the secret door behind his sitting room bookcase, he would surely choose to disappear behind it now. Oh how he hated - everything.

“Snape.” The room is so quiet, he can hear Potter swallow. “Snape,” Potter says. “Sit down. Please.”

Like a blind man groping in the dark, Severus reaches out and his hand meets the side of the armchair, and he sits bodily into it. He grips the arms of the chair until his knuckles go white and stares at Potter sitting across. Potter is looking at him - and Severus recognises this particular look as the look from the Wizengamot, the look Severus had never seen on Potter’s face until then but which was now, he realises, almost always the way Potter looked at him. 

“You saw all those memories-” Severus says, and means to say - _and you still come to see me._

Potter nods seriously. “I wouldn’t have known what to do if you hadn’t given them to me.”

“I never meant to-” Severus closes his mouth with a snap, feels himself pressing his body into the back of the chair, as if he will be able, if only he pushes hard enough, to vanish himself out of the room.

“You never meant to what?”

“I never meant to- live.”

“Live?” Potter says, his eyes drilling into Severus. “You did. You did _live_.”

“I never wanted anyone to see,” Severus glances up at the mantel, “all those memories.”

“ _Snape_ ,” Potter grits softly.

Severus looks away. _For fuck's sake._

Potter gets up from the settee and suddenly he is crouching at the arm of Severus’ chair, one hand clutching the worn-out fabric next to his left hand. Severus wants to get up and Apparate away from here, but he is rooted to the spot.

“Snape,” Potter says softly again. Severus wrenches his gaze back to Potter’s face. It is open and earnest, his look that same searching, searing look Severus now knows the Boy Who Lived has had ever since Severus had woken back up in the Hogwarts infirmary. Potter’s hand closes over the top of his, and Severus jerks, looking into Potter’s face, wild-eyed. “We couldn’t have done it without you. I couldn’t have done it without you. And I’m glad - glad that you _lived_ \- and glad that you shared those memories.”

Severus pulls his hand out from under Potter’s and wrests himself bodily from the chair, away. He senses Potter stand up as well behind him. Severus yanks both hands through his hair, his left hand still tingling. He purses his lips hard and stalks toward the wall - and then back. Potter just stands there.

“I-” he begins. Potter just looks at him. Severus recognises some of the same expression he’d had on his face when he’d been looking at Lily in the photograph. “I didn’t do it for _you_ ,” Severus says fiercely, as if he is angry.

“I know.”

_I didn’t do it for Albus, either_ , he adds silently. 

“You loved my mother.”

Severus scowls. “I loved Lily Evans” - Potter. “She was my best and only friend.”

Now it is Potter’s turn to frown. “Yes, but you-”

Severus shakes his head. “I would have done- anything for Lily.”

Potter nods, as if he knows what Severus is saying, but he does not. Severus struggles. A part of him longs oddly to make him see - and another part is panicking, backpedaling for equilibrium, amazed at how quickly a midday visitation has descended into this morass, which Severus had once permanently believed himself pried from. 

“I understand now,” Potter goes on. “You were Dumbledore’s man. That's what I told Voldemort-”

Severus’ dark eyes cut to Potter’s face at the name, reality beginning to return to the room. He quirks an eyebrow and tries a sneer. “I'm sure the Dark Lord was impressed.”

Potter’s lips twitch. “Not as impressed as he was when he found out I was master of the Elder Wand.”

Severus barks a laugh. The sound seems to shatter some essential tension that has built up in the room, freeing them from its spell. 

Severus straightens his spine, pulling himself together, almost like he is shrugging back on his black frock coat, buttoning it up to the throat. The high August sun is shafting through the slats of the window opening up on the back garden, and suddenly he can hear the summer birdsong. (It is like a dog shaking the water out of its ears after a long plunge in the lake.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments are love. They sustain me and keep me going. 
> 
> I'm still looking for a kind beta and a Britpicker. If you are either of those (or both!), please email me at dylanify@yahoo.co.uk. 
> 
> P.S. Look, you couldn't take selfies in the wizarding world in 1974 any more than Muggles could take them then, BUT you _could_ balance the camera on something and both stand in the shot whilst you did a charm with your wand that caused the shutter to click... The joys of magic.


	3. Several days later

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know what to say other than that — here I am again, compelled by this universe and these characters, as I never fail to be. A short chapter is better than no chapter. And thank you for all the incredibly lovely comments. The kudos bring me joy, whenever they appear. I will try not to be so goddamn long before the next instalment.

_And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow_  
—"The Lake Isle of Innisfree," Yeats

***

Several days later when Severus is dusting the mantel — he really has turned into his mother (soon he’ll be locking the front door after pub closing time so Da can’t stumble home) — he finds Potter’s still-full glass of single malt behind a pile of books. He stops with his hand closed around it, staring at the settee where his guest had last sat.

After that joke from Potter about the Dark Lord, Severus had come to his senses and decided that his family’s sitting room, whilst perhaps in better nick than at any other time in the recent past, was not his preferred site for a belated crack up, and he had fled for the out of doors. Once there, he stood in the shadow of his back doorstep, figuratively catching his breath, and took in the view. The fenced-in postage stamp of green was nothing to write home about, but Severus was rightly proud of the progress he’d made on the garden in such a short while. Beetroot, fennel, French and runner beans, turnips… he would have a proper vegetable harvest. And his herbs and Potions garden — the basil, coriander, parsley — were coming along just fine. Next year he would have valerian and fluxweed and much more. Perhaps most breathtakingly, and decidedly out of place in the gardens of working-class Cokeworth, his _akebia quianata medeis_ \- a magical (and therefore more seasonally lunatic) variety of the Japanese chocolate vine - was already vigorously twining its way across the latticework of the northern fence, and its fragrant dark red flowers had given way to elongated purple fruit. 

The briefest of brushes to his elbow made Severus start from this horticultural reverie to find Potter standing at his right shoulder. The younger man looked a bit bowled over, which was how Severus felt. Somehow that was reassuring. 

Potter swallowed. “Let me help a bit - please,” he said, and before Severus could misunderstand, Potter nodded nervously toward the vegetable patch.

And that was how Potter had stayed and, bizarrely effectively, watered and fertilised and thinned parsley whilst Severus began to lay the foundation for the small greenhouse, which he had not been planning to get to for a couple of weeks yet - just to have an excuse to keep an eye on Potter, who otherwise would get up to Merlin knew what.

After a couple hours — when the mid-afternoon sun was at its hottest — Potter had disappeared indoors and returned with two glasses of water and flopped in the shade of the scraggly crab apple tree, holding out the other glass to Severus, who had paused in his work across the garden. “Come rest,” Potter called.

Severus squinted suspiciously, but he was thirsty again. He set down his trowel and cautiously approached, fearing he looked much more like some sort of spooked animal than he cared to admit. He arrived at last to loom over Potter, who looked up at him and with a lopsided shy smile proffered the glass. Severus snatched it quickly and perched on the small rickety wooden stool Potter clearly had not preferred to the grass he was currently reclining in.

Severus drank, wetting his dry throat. “You’ve succeeded in your mission,” he said, looking out across the garden, ears picking up the sound of someone revving up a lawn mower down the street.

“What mission?” Potter asked, not looking up at him, and Severus was reminded that Potter was certainly less at ease than he seemed. 

“Not getting chucked out.” 

Potter’s Adam’s apple bobbed, and he fisted a patch of grass. Finally he looked up at him owlishly through his glasses. “Do you want me to leave?”

Severus scowled. “You’re surprisingly not dismal at gardening.”

Potter grinned at that and perked up. “Yeah? Guess that’s one thing going for the Dursleys.”

“I can’t imagine...Petunia loving to garden.”

Potter snorted. “No, I don’t think she loved it, but she had me out there often enough, with her.” Potter pushed one blunt, capable hand through his mop of hair, but it only fell back in his eyes. “What are those?” he asked, pointing to the snarl of bushes along the fence-line, beneath the chocolate vine.

Severus hesitated. “My mother’s peonies.” 

“They’ll grow back?”

“Yes, I believe they will.” Until that summer, they hadn’t been cared for since his mum had gone. When Severus had started to work at them, they’d been overgrown with years of dried foliage, and the weeds had grown up to choke them. He’d spent one of his more delirious still-early days of recovery violently weeding them and thinning and re-dividing. There had been an especial richness to the satisfaction of setting them right.

“Was your mum a gardener?”

Severus cleared his throat. “Yes, quite an excellent one. Potioneers often are.”

“She must’ve been great at Potions- better than the half-blood Prince?”

Severus’ heart tripped a beat, but he did not rise to the bait. His lips quirked. “I reckon she would’ve been- if she’d had the time.”

Potter did not ask why she had not. Severus feared that it was because the younger man had some inkling — from his godawful memories, no less — and wondered why that did not bother him. Did Potter’s newfound wards-whispering superpowers extend to putting a spell over others as well? He chanced a look at the young man sitting in the grass. Potter was still and thoughtful in the syrupy summer afternoon, manifestly not the boy Severus thought he remembered.

At that moment, as if Potter sensed the direction of Severus’ thoughts, he glanced up into Severus’ face, his bright green eyes warm and kind, very much like another’s. Severus grimaced and stood up. He reached out his empty hand, indicating Potter should put his glass into it. Instead, Potter stretched out his own hand and grasped Severus’, hauling himself to his feet. For a dizzy second, Severus stumbled forward and stood there, nose to nose with Potter, his own dirty, cool hand in Potter’s much warmer one, until Potter let go and stepped away, his glasses almost opaque in the sunlight, and passed Severus his empty glass.

Severus stood there with both glasses in hand. He cleared his throat for the second time in as many minutes. “If you want a go at something else my mother left over, all that—” Severus gestured awkwardly with the glasses, “all that woody, old growth needs to be cut back, so there’ll be young stalks for eating. Maybe with tending this year, there’ll be something edible next year.”

“‘Course.”

Severus turned on his heel to return the glasses to the kitchen.

***

Another half hour outdoors passed in companionable silence. Severus was hunched by the far wall, laying pieces of wood for one side of the greenhouse, when he realised he couldn't hear Potter shuffling around. He turned to find the young man standing nearby, regarding him. Severus opened his mouth to say something, perhaps something nasty (it was unnerving having Potter standing there), when Potter said, “I’ve got to go.”

”Right,” Severus corrected course, but he didn’t think it came out biting enough. 

“Yeah, thanks for letting me- thanks for letting me stay.”

Severus stood up abruptly. “Don’t make it a habit.”

Potter looked slightly abashed. “No- yeah. Well, see you Prof- Snape.”

Feeling oddly panicky, Severus gave a curt nod, and Potter smiled at him, hesitant. Severus wiped his hands on his trousers. Potter put a hand to the back of his neck and looked at him from underneath his fringe. “I’m, er, back at Hogwarts for term time, but I’d like to see you again, sometime. Can I?”

Severus swallowed. _No_. “I suppose I can’t stop you.” 

The smile that shone across Potter’s face was more blinding than the August sun just starting its long afternoon descent behind him. “O-Okay. Good. Thanks. Good luck with the garden.” Potter turned and hightailed it around the side of the house.

Oh, _god_. Severus brought the back of his hand up to his lips. What the ever-loving fuck was he thinking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aren't they the silliest. 
> 
> Comments are love. Let me know your thoughts.
> 
> And thank you to my father for the gardening insights, inherited from his own mother (my grandmother), in fact. Any horticultural errors are certainly mine - or the fault of the magic.


	4. If the nightmares

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back with a vengeance.

_Hold your grandmother's Bible to your breast_  
_Gonna put it to the test_  
_You wanted it to be blessed_

_And in your heart_  
_You know it to be true_  
_You know what you gotta do_  
_They all depend on you_

_And you already know  
Yeah, you already know how this will end_

_There is no escape from the slave catcher's songs  
For all of the loved ones gone_

***

If the nightmares weren’t so teeth-baringly _terrifying_ , Severus might have the time to appreciate their more subtle ironies. As it is, he still dodges sleep, and fights the constant temptation to down his strongest Dreamless Draughts, severe addictive properties be damned, and wakes up many nights barking himself hoarse from screaming. And if some burdens, unexpectedly, blessedly, he would seem to’ve been allowed to put aside, other weights are too heavy to shift. So Severus- endures them.

Many people, Severus gathers, dream of falling, of flying, of almost dying — but most have not experienced these things in life, firsthand. 

The wind is bitingly cold on the Astronomy Tower. Again, Albus is falling, falling swiftly and yet in such slow motion that Severus can see his kind, knowing eyes, his bewhiskered half smile, as he plummets to his death. And as if he wishes himself to die, suddenly Severus is falling too, and he welcomes the rush of the ground toward him, the sick lurch in his stomach that means it is almost over — but the impact never comes. At the last, he remembers to fly, and he lands on his feet.

He looks up at what he knows to be an October full moon, a house looming up from the darkness in front of him. Its shadow fills him with despair. His heart already splitting from his chest, Severus fights back tears. He jumps at the night sounds behind him, the hiss of the wind in the trees. He does not want to approach, to open the door. He knows that this is where his life will fall to pieces. He almost staggers to his knees. Instead, he watches his own pale hand push back the broken latch, and the door swing inward. He steps into the front hall of Godric’s Hollow, and into Regulus’ old bedroom. Another step into the room, and the moonlight through the black-paned old window lights up the body splayed out on the floor. 

Severus fights to approach, his blood beating under the thin skin of his arms, a scream pounding at the back of his throat. He crouches and reaches out a hand to turn the body over, grasps a cold shoulder, pulling, the face and neck turning toward him—

His eyes snap open, back arching off the bed, a dry, wracking sob heaving from his throat, retching, gulping in lungfuls of air, and turns on his side to stop the shaking. His hand fumbles for the grip of his wand. “ _Lumos_ ,” he croaks, and a thin wisp of pale light throws his old bedroom in Cokeworth into sharp relief. His wild eyes find the rickety old student’s desk, the tall, listing bookshelf, the black void of the window. He breathes loudly through his nose, and pushes himself up and his feet over the side of the bed, where they meet the air and then the nap of the old floor rug. He pushes a trembling right hand through his thick hair. _Gods_. Severus squeezes his eyes shut. Behind his own eyelids, he can still see Potter’s face, moon-like and shining and dead, sightless eyes. He curls a fist against his thigh and grits his teeth, in pain and anger, and wrenches himself to his feet. He snatches the ratty dressing gown from its hanger on the back of his bedroom door and knots it around his waist with sharp twists of his hands, trying to calm his breathing and the rapid beat of his heart.

Severus well knows that he has long been cursed to suffer variations on that nightmare for the remainder of his days — but that Potter should appear in them, in the place of dubious honour usually reserved for Lily or Regulus… It doesn’t bear thinking about. For fuck’s sake, he’d saved the infernal brat dozens of times. It is one of the _only_ sins for which he is _not_ guilty. He bares his teeth and goes into the hall, taking the stairs down two at a time. He will not be sleeping tonight.

***

Later that week, when Severus has totted up the last of Poppy’s infirmary order — a diverse collection of general remedies and traditional inventory stock that he has replenished every year before term time recommences for many years now, and the reassuring habitual preparation of which he sees no reason to terminate, as long as the medi-witch still owls him for it — he realises he must make a trip to London. Some ingredients — and some errands — can only be fulfilled in person. He has been putting it off, he admits to himself, and some strange antsiness he can only attribute to the snap of autumn he can now feel in the air compels him to send off a few quick correspondences, trade his house clothes for a robe, and Floo to Diagon Alley. 

He is- not prepared for how different everything looks and feels. As he steps out into the street, the first thing to hit him is the riot of sound and colour after so long alone, left to his own devices. The second is the new construction, the signs of hasty post-War repairs and new money, the scrum of peacetime. And the stares. This, he had been expecting, and his answering scowl is mostly genuine. It keeps most passers-by at bay, as he tries, in the best imitation of his old sweep, to make his way as quickly as possible to the entrance of the Gold Dragon and slip inside. In the dim light of Diagon Alley’s most bourgeois pub, Narcissa’s sleek blond head is easy to spot seated in a low corner.

She rises to greet him, and though he winces inwardly to see how tired she looks, her welcome seems genuine. She clasps his forearm in one hand and air-kisses both cheeks.

“Severus,” she says, and if it isn’t exactly warm, this is Narcissa.

“Narcissa,” he says, equally coolly. “Please, let me get your drink.”

“A glass of the house white, please.” 

Severus returns to their table, carrying his ale in one hand and slides her glass over with the other. He takes a seat and quirks his lips at her, raising his glass to hers. “To all your help, Severus,” she says, before he can assay anything fitting. He finds himself touched despite himself and lowers his eyes to the tabletop, taking a sip and placing his pint down. He looks back up, taking in the armour of her all-black ensemble, strikingly makeup-less and severe, even for her.

“How is your family?” he asks.

It is Narcissa’s turn to look away, the slight downturn to her lips and the weariness of her shoulders telling most of the story. “You know that Lucius is in Azkaban, likely forever.”

“I had read in the Prophet.”

“Draco is fine, thank heavens.” 

“I am glad to hear it,” Severus says, and means it.

“And- you?” Narcissa pushes on, bravely, he thinks.

“I, too, am fine. I survived.” He brushes the knotted lump of the scar at his neck. 

“And they did not take everything away from you,” Narcissa says, her words bitter, meeting his gaze directly for the first time.

Severus swallows. “No, the interim powers saw fit to pardon me.”

“And Potter came to your fierce defence, I hear.” Narcissa’s eyes search his.

Severus grimaces. 

“He saved my Draco, too, you know. As you did,” she adds quietly.

Severus is- surprised. “I did not know.”

Narcissa smiles sadly. “You look so shocked, Severus. Yet you were working for them the whole time.”

Severus thinks of Lucius in Azkaban, of Bellatrix dead, of Draco. “I made that choice a long time ago.”

Narcissa nods as if she understands. If anyone could, Severus thinks, she might. Against his better judgement, he says, “Please tell Draco— if I can help with anything, he need only ask.”

“Thank you, Severus,” Narcissa says graciously. Then she looks at him piercingly again. “You know some of the old crowd will want your life,” she says, sounding almost accusatory.

Severus sits back. “Of course.” He does not mention how his heart palpitated even to come here, to set foot on this wizarding high street, in full view of dozens of strangers, of the precautions he had taken, and the dangers he still could not ensure against— and how tired he was. “I can’t hide forever.”

Narcissa inclines her head. “No, we none of us can.”

***

The start of his mail order Potions business is slow, but orders pick up apace. Bedding in the garden for autumn and the setup of various administrative details for receiving orders take up any time Severus doesn’t actually spend on brewing and researching, and it is suddenly chilly October almost before he notices. Outside of the occasional correspondence and the periodic in-person visits he must make (and, truthfully, enjoys) to the few independent shops he trusts for various rare ingredients, Severus has few distractions. Minerva has written him twice now, urging him to make a visit to Hogwarts, which he has ignored, and besides Arthur and Molly Weasley’s at first unexpected invitations, also ignored, he has no social calls. Take away spying for Albus Dumbledore and bowing and scraping for the Dark Lord, and one finds one’s social calendar blissfully free indeed. He keeps up with his few journal subscriptions, shops at the local Muggle grocery, and occasionally wakes screaming in the night. He meticulously checks his wards and reads the Prophet cover to cover, keeping an eye on the post-War mop-up, the trials and convictions. 

The simple, almost ecstatic post-snakebite euphoria of the summer months passes, and, almost as if ushered in with the cold, the grip of old anxieties returns. Many nights he cannot sleep. Twice he cannot help himself and steals by the old Evans house, down the posher end of the old neighbourhood. He stares at the first floor bedroom window, smokes a rolled fag down til it burns his fingers, his lips, and slinks home again like a sixteen-year-old. “ _You dress like a gyp_ ,” Petunia says with offhand scorn to him in his dreams. “ _It’s nowt to do with me_!” he screams his throat hoarse, as his da backhands him upside the head. “ _You’re mental_ ,” Lily says in wonder, watching him float a dandelion up and into her hair.

The old ghosts he has dealt with for years. He finds it is when memories of the last year at Hogwarts intrude — flashes of the Carrows’ delight at a small first year boy’s pain, or when he wakes gasping as Nagini lunges, or when he watches crouched behind a tree as Potter jumps into the freezing lake but doesn’t come back out again — then Severus brews furiously through the night, scrapes the cauldrons and his hands raw with cleanup, and only remembers to eat when he gets dizzy mounting the cellar stairs.

It is, of course, the raw morning after one of these nights that Potter shows up at his door.

The first Severus knows of it, he is struggling to wakefulness on the settee in his sitting room, his back protesting. He is groggy and still in his clothes from the evening before, and at first he doesn’t know why he has woken. He has not been sleeping well of late, and his head is stuffed with cotton, his eyes like sandpaper. There is a persistent knocking at the front door. The wards would have warned him long before of any malicious intent, and so he stumbles to open it, blinking into the midmorning sun and into Potter’s gaping face.

“Snape. Hi,” Potter says.

Severus’ heart thumps. He wishes uselessly that he had on his robes, and was not in his shirtsleeves and slippers. “Potter,” he says, nodding brusquely. “Why are you here?”

“I-” Potter rakes a hand through his wild hair, in a gesture now almost grown familiar. “I can’t sleep,” he says quickly, breathlessly, like an admission of guilt. “I can never sleep. They won’t give me anything for it, but I- I won’t make it through term if I don’t get some rest.” Potter swallows. Severus sees now that he is ragged, that the tan of summer has faded, and he is too thin, dark circles under his eyes. Severus twitches out of the way, and Potter almost stumbles forward into the house. Severus does not let him brush by him but backs into the kitchen, and Potter follows.

“Tea?” Severus says, and thinks inanely, _I did not entertain students in my house before_.

Potter sits stiffly at the table and clasps his hands on the tabletop, looking out of place. “Yes, please.”

Severus nods awkwardly. He busies himself with the kitchen things, tapping the kettle to boil with his wand, and snagging mugs and tea spoons. He is pulling the milk from the fridge when Potter stands up, saying, “I can help,” and is suddenly at his elbow, all too close, and Severus shies away. 

“Potter,” he hisses, turning to the other man. “ _Please_. Sit.” Potter nods and backs off, returning to his seat.

Finally, they are seated across from one another at the scarred table, tea things between them. Potter holds his mug between his hands, looking at Severus. As if Severus’ stillness, at last, has eased something in him, Potter quirks a small smile at him. “You look- good,” Potter says, as if he cannot help saying it.

Severus feels his face heat, and he fights the senseless instinct to get up from the table. He huffs instead, looks away. It is such a stupid untruth. “I look anything but,” he snaps.

Potter just looks at him, smiling. “What have you been doing? I mean, since the- since the summer.”

“Potter,” Severus says. “Drink your tea, and tell me why you haven’t been sleeping.”

Potter looks down. “I’m sorry to bother you. It’s just- Pomfrey said she couldn’t keep prescribing me Dreamless Sleep, that it isn’t a solution, but I- I can’t keep up with everything if I’m not sleeping.”

“Everything?”

Potter swallows, jaw clenching. “Eighth Year is hard. It’s not like being a student anymore. Everyone who had to stay last year is behind, and I’m even further behind. I need to do extra well if I - if I want to get into the Auror programme.” He stops and looks up at Severus as if he might interrupt or naysay him, and when Severus doesn’t, he continues. “And I’m trying to get things done at the Ministry, too, and at Hogwarts, to change how things work, with the House system. And sometimes that feels like that’s the least of it... “ His finger follows a groove in the tabletop. “So many people are missing, and everything’s- everyone’s different.”

“Are you having nightmares?” Severus asks.

Potter swallows. “Yeah, sure, everyone is.” He won’t meet his eyes.

“How often?”

“I dunno. Maybe- too much. A lot. Most nights.” Potter looks miserable at the admission, as if lying would’ve been preferable.

“I will brew you something to help,” Severus says, in his mind’s eye seeing Potter in the Shrieking Shack, as his vision dimmed, feeling Potter’s hands at his throat, his face pinched and stricken in the gloom.

“Snape, thank you,” Harry breathes, and his obvious relief twinges, as if he had thought Severus might not help. “Of course, I’ll pay you. I know you don’t work for the school anymore- not that that changes anything. I’ve wanted to see you, you know, a lot since - since I was here, and there’s been so much- thank you-”

Severus holds up his hand to stop Potter’s babble, and purses his lips. “You will not pay me, Potter. You will, however, promise me that you will use my potion exactly as I instruct, sparingly, when the nightmares are their worst.”

Potter nods vigorously. “Of course.”

As Severus makes to rise, Potter’s hand shoots out and covers Severus’ own. Severus freezes as if the touch itself is a paralytic. “Snape,” Potter says, looking into his face. “If you won’t let me pay, at least let me- let me help with the brewing,” and at the tightening of Severus’ lips, he hastily adds, “Brewing other easy stuff while you work on it, at least, so you don’t get behind.” Severus slides his hand out from under Harry’s - _Potter’s_ \- and represses a shiver.

“Fine,” he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, let me know what you think.


End file.
